Returning the Favour
by Grav
Summary: She knows. And now so does he. Post ep for IATF


A.N. I want to ride my tricycle, I want to ride my trike! I want to ride my tricycle, I want to ride it where I like. And that, my dears, is why I write and read fanfiction.  
  
Disclaimer: Hank et al are doing such a great job with this show that I am glad they own it and me. If however, Martin ever goes up on lease, call me.  
  
Warning: This story, while mostly linear, contains deep thoughts, vague speculation, and something around the edges of telepathy. Do not read while inebriated. Of course, if you do and then flame, know that we are many, and very good at coping.  
  
Spoilers: If A Tree Falls  
  
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~Returning the Favour~  
  
He hadn't moved in almost half an hour. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He'd fidgeted, rearranged his pens four times, and put his hands over his eyes a lot. But he hasn't written or typed a word, and his coffee must be stone cold by now. She knew how that went. A series of events begins, and the end, a piece of scum lies dead on the ground at the hands of a perfectly justified OPR approved shooting.  
  
She was watching him. He could tell. She'd taken to doing that lately, wondering if he could see the blood on her hands. He couldn't, because it wasn't there. And now it was on his hands too. Not the same blood, of course, but it was human, and it stung for all its lack of physical manifestation. Lady MacBeth knew what she was talking about. And now, so did he. His father called Jack a loose cannon, but Jack negotiated hostage releases and convinced child molesters to give in without drawing a weapon.  
  
He was dying. She knew that because she had died too. A man was still a man, even when he acted like an animal. And no amount of soap, water and OPR reviews could change that. The chain of events had wrapped itself around his neck, cutting off his air, but in the end had not been enough to restrain him. She wonders if he even knows where the beginning is anymore.  
  
She remembers firing clear as a bell. But she doesn't remember exactly why. That's not what she tells him, of course, but he knows it now because he remembers and forgets too. It was only a knife after all. It's not like he doesn't know how to get a knife away from someone. He's taken all the appropriate training. But he didn't want to touch that knife in case it had been the same one. If he fired, that knife would never get blood on it again, and he might never have to see another child so bound and bandaged. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, hitting the bastard was much more satisfying.  
  
He's replaying the scene over and over in his head. She can tell because his shoulders slump just a little bit more every few seconds. He's wondering what he could have done differently, and every time he solves the scenario without firing, he feels more defeated. She did the same thing. She doesn't tell the therapist that, and she sure as hell didn't tell OPR. The shoot was clean. It helps if she keeps repeating that.  
  
She wonders why it's always kids. He had an inkling why it's always young girls for her. She's not sure she wants to know. But she wonders anyway. He's been different since the bookstore, different since the trial. So has she of course, but he changed that day too. Everything did. He'd had his suspicions, but the incident itself confirmed his guess and dashed his hopes.  
  
He won't give up. Giving up makes it too easy, and he feels he needs to suffer. She understands and knows it futile, but she won't tell him that. It never goes away. This will dawn on him slowly and he'll be tempted again to give in, but that is not the kind of man he is. She isn't that kind of woman either, and she has double the reason to go. And double the guilt to stay.  
  
She watches while Vivian talks to him. She doesn't want to know the details, and he's not sure he'd be able to tell her. He can't take empathy right now, and sympathy was never even an option. She understands the hell he's in right now. She knows he wants to scream. She knows he'd give anything to turn back the clock. He can't stand that.  
  
He needs her. Not in the way he hoped and thought he might some day, but just for her to be there. And she will be, ready to buy him a beer or six, offer him a shoulder, and pay the cab fare home. It wouldn't be the first time they'd shared such an experience. Vivian leaves, and she goes over to talk to him. His eyes are haunted. She suspects that, on some level, hers are too. She asks, but he cuts her off with his refusal.  
  
She's returning the favour. He knows that.  
  
So is he.  
  
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A.N. Well, what did we think? 


End file.
